Spying For Fun and Profit
by ChrisR
Summary: Follow-up to The Siegfried Follies. 88 and Maxine must recover some purloined pearls in order to prevent an international incident. Meanwhile, Max continues with his task of rebuilding Control.


This is a follow-up to my story "The Siegfried Follies" so if you have not read that you should probably do that now (go ahead, I'll wait). As before, it takes place sometime after Get Smart, Again! and also incorporates certain details from WebMistressGina's Team Smart universe. - ChrisR

"Spying For Fun and Profit  
-or-  
Why is it even called The Three Musketeers when it's all about the swords?"

Control Agent 88 loved her lives. She had two of them. Not only was she the lead agent for the U.S. Government's most secret espionage organization but she also owned and operated her own bookstore in downtown Georgetown. And since books and spying were two of her most favorite things in the world, what could possibly be better?

_Unless it's books _about_ spying_, she thought to herself. She turned up her nose; that wasn't funny. And above all 88 liked things to be funny. _Needs work_, she decided.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a burst of the theme from _Hawaii Five-O_ signifying the arrival of a customer. She didn't especially like _Hawaii Five-O_ but naming her store "Book 'Em, Danno!" after the show's catch phrase, now _that_ was funny. It was amazing how many people didn't get the joke, though. But that was all right; that was funny, too.

"Can I help you?" she asked as the customer, a bespectacled fiftysomething with salt and pepper hair, approached the counter.

"I'm looking for a present for my young nephew," the man replied.

"Children's Classics is over there," she told him, pointing, "but you can't go past _The Three Musketeers_."

"Is that what you recommend?"

"No. One of the bookcases fell over and it's blocking the aisle."

He looked where she pointed and, seeing no fallen bookcase, turned back to her confused.

She grinned. "_The Three Musketeers_ is a great book."

As the customer wandered away Hawaii Five-O blared again and 88 looked over to see her spying partner, Agent 24, Maxine Smart come in.

"That tune is getting very annoying," Maxine complained. "Have you ever thought about changing it to something else?"

"Like what?"

"How about 'Who Wrote the Book of Love?'?"

"Mmm. That's not bad but no."

"Are you ready to go? We have to be at the rendezvous point in twenty minutes."

"I'm leaving now, Billy," 88 called over to her assistant who was busily stacking books on the other side of the shop. "You're in charge."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Don't take any wooden nickels."

"No, ma'am."

"Seriously. And no more Pinerovian travelers' checks, either. They're impossible to get rid of."

"Yes, ma'am. I mean no, ma'am."

"I hate it when he calls me 'ma'am'," 88 said to Maxine. "It makes me feel old."

"You _are_ old," Maxine told her.

"Sweet talker."

"But you're young at heart. Hey! 'Young At Heart" - that's another great song."

"Forget it. I'm not changing my tune on the door."

The offending melody played again as they left the shop.

"It even mentions fairy tales," Maxine persisted. "That would be appropriate."

"Appropriate to a nursery."

"You could sell flowers, too."

"Seedlings."

Their voices faded as they walked away while behind them Billy chuckled to himself and the customer made his way back to the counter to pay for his purchase.

---------------

Maxine shivered. "I don't know why these meeting always have to be in old abandoned warehouses with no light or heat."

"It's a time-honored genre convention, Maxine," 88 replied. "If it ain't broke don't fix it."

"At least they could fix the air conditioning. And why do you get the gun and I get the flashlight?"

"What are you talking about? The gun has a built-in flashlight and the flashlight has a built-in gun. It's just the same."

"No, it isn't."

"It isn't?"

"No. The gun-flashlight is much more intimidationg than the flashlight-gun."

"It is?"

"Yes. And you're intimidating enough already."

"Thank you for noticing."

"What's a partner for?"

"You can look scary when the light doesn't hit you just right."

"That''s the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Let's stop now before it starts to get icky."

"Good idea."

They continued walking, each using their respective devices to illuminate their steps, when suddenly a sound came at them from the darkness.

"Psst!"

"Was that you?" 88 asked.

"Of course that wasn't me. Why would I be making a noise like that?"

"I thought it might have been the radishes you had for lunch."

"Psst!"

"There it goes again."

"It's coming from over there." Maxine swung her flashlight in that direction - revealing a thin man with an even thinner moustache cowering in the corner.

They walked over to him.

"Pardon me, sir," said 88, "but did you have radishes for lunch?"

The man frowned and shook his head.

"Then you must be our contact."

"You are from Control?"

"Yes. I'm Agent 88 and this is Agent 24."

The man regarded her dubiously and then shrugged. "Perhaps it is well they send woman. This situation calls for some tact."

88 bristled. "Did all that seventies conciousness-raising achieve nothing?" she implored skyward. "I'll have you know I can be as tactless as any man."

"That's true,"Maxine offered. "She can."

88 shot her a look. "Thanks for the support."

"I've got your back."

"And your mother's nose."

The man's eyes glazed over as he started to show the dazed expression a lot of peple seemed to develop around 88 and Maxine. "If you feel you are unable to carry out the assignment . . . "

"Who says we can't?" 88 demanded. "I mean, what assignment? Hold on. We seem to have gotten ahead of ourselves here. Let's backtrack a little. I'm 88. This is 24. And you are . . . ?"

"I am the emissary of Madame Linara Krosni. She is the - "

"She's the new first lady of Majikistan," 88 broke in. "Her husband has just become their country's first democratically elected president since the fall of communism."

The man inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"Wow," said Maxine. "That's pretty good. How do you know all that? I've never even heard of Majikistan."

"You know those International Status Briefing Reports we get every day?"

"Yes."

"It wasn't in that." 88 turned back to the man. "I presume Madame Krosni is in some sort of trouble."

"You presume correctly. My lady loves her husband dearly and would never knowingly do anything to harm him - yet a certain indiscretion on her part threatens to bring down his government."

"How so?"

"How can I put this delicately? It must be admitted than in her youth my lady was, let us say, not a nun."

"None of us was," 88 remarked.

"Things are different in your country."

"I'm saying _none_ of us was." She winked at him.

He looked flustered. "Why do you tell me this?"

"It's a joke," Maxine explained. "Not a good one."

88 turned to look at her. "Everyone's a critic." She turned back to the emissary. "Nun? None?" 88 prompted, but the man's face remained blank. "Never mind. Go on with your story. I'm riveted."

"As I said, a certain youthful indiscretion has come back to haunt her. The trouble I refer to is in fact that of one of her former, let us say, companions. It is her attempt to help him that has placed her in the circumstance in which she finds herself."

Maxine nodded sympathetically. "No good deed goes unpunished," she commiserated. "Clare Booth Luce."

"And this companion," 88 queried, "I take it he was not so much flowers on the doorstep and more in the mints on the pillow category."

"Colorfully put but I regret to say accurate."

"So what happened to bring him back into Madame Krosni's life?"

"At the time of their dalliance my lady was aware that this man had a, let us say, weakness for gambling. But in the years since it seems that it has worsened."

"I can see where this is going," Maxine interrupted. "He's run up a huge debt and ticked off whatever passes for the Mob over there." The emissary nodded nervously. "And Madame Krosni has somehow gotten involved in paying it off."

"You are very close," the emissary replied.

"Your twenty-four hour deodorant must be wearing off," said 88.

Maxine gave her a dirty look as the emissary gamely continued. "But it goes beyond mere mobsters. My lady's former paramour has become a high official in Majikistan's neighboring country, Transmania, and if knowledge of their relationship should become public the scandal would rock confidence in her husband's government. Our democracy is very fragile and the communists would grasp the chance to regain control of Majikistan."

"And the communist government in Transmania would be only too happy to see that happen," 88 footnoted. "But why do I feel that there is still another shoe to drop?"

"The only item of worth that my lady owns in her own right is a string of pearls that her husband gave to her on their wedding day. It is that which she sent to her former suitor to act as collateral for his debt. The Transmanian ambassador knows this and has made a point of saying that he is looking forward to seeing her wear them at her husband's inaugural ball next week. If she cannot produce them her liaison will be discovered."

"And why would she not be able to produce them?" Maxine asked.

"Alas they have been stolen."

88 looked at Maxine. "You didn't see that coming?"

"They were in the hands of the lending institution - "

"Loan shark," 88 translated.

" - when an agent of Transmania's president, let us say, took possession in a rather violent manner."

"Bye-bye, loan shark."

"Yes." The emissary nodded again. "Violent _and_ lethal."

"So we can assume that the president of Transmania now has the pearls and is waiting for President Krosni's inaugural ball to reveal Madame Krosni's, let us say, embarrassment."

"You are very astute."

"Please," Maxine protested. "A blind cyclops could have seen that.'

"Blind cyclops?"

88 jerked her thumb at Maxine. "College girl."

"And proud of t."

The man shook his head to clear it before going on. "There is one bright spot to the story."

"Thank goodness for that," said 88, "because so far it's been a bit of a downer."

"My lady's former wooer received a telephone call from another of Tranmania's officials - someone saying he was with the Security Ministry and in a position to help in some way."

"But you don't know who."

"Regrettably, no."

"So much for the bright spot."

"My lady in turn received a telephone call from her . . . friend. He was about to tell her the caller's identity. He got so far as to say, 'His name is - ' when my lady heard a gunshot." He paused. "He will recover. But the doctors do not expect him to speak before President Krosni's inauguration."

Maxine and 88 exchanged glances.

"What is it?" the emissary asked.

"That's the first thing we learned in spy school," Maxine said. "Never say those three words."

"Actually, that was the second thing we learned in spy school," 88 said.

"What was the first?"

"Never tell anyone what we learned in spy school."

"But you just . . "

"I know. Confusing, isn't it?"

"I confess I have been confused by much you have said today but, on behalf of my lady, I thank you for listening."

"No," said 88. "Thank you for the opportunity to help." She looked at Maxine. "We've been coasting on that Siegfried Follies case long enough."

---------------

"That's all for now, Larabee," said Max, concluding his dictation. He resumed his seat. "Don't forget to make sure you follow the new procedure."

"Right, Max." He paused. "What new procedure?"

"We're increasing efficiency by putting all our office files on computer," Max explained. "So instead of typing it up in triplicate so you can file one copy and burn the other two, you simply key it in at your desk terminal and save it direct to the main database."

"The main database."

"From there you can easily make two copies on floppy disks."

"And what do I do with those?"

"Burn them."

"Right, Max."

Max regarded his longtime associate carefully. "You didn't get any of that, did you, Larabee?'

"Not a word, Max."

Max frowned. "I was hoping at least one of us would. Well, do the best you can. If you have any problems with the new equipment the Technical Manual will tell you everything you need to know."

"Manual? Is that that Spanish guy in Maintenance?"

Max rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, Larabee," he ridiculed. "He's Mexican."

Larabee started for the door then hesitated. "Oh. There's something I wanted to talk to you about. I've been thinking."

"Now we're in trouble," Max muttered.

"I've been thinking that I need an assistant."

"You need an assistant?"

"I need an assistant."

"You're _my_ assistant."

"_I_ need an assistant."

"An assistant assistant?"

"Great idea, Max. I'll hire one right away." Larabee moved toward the door again.

"Hold it right there, Larabee. Just what do you think you need an assistant for?"

"There've been a lot of changes around here since you became chief, Max."

"But your workload hasn't increased any since the Chief was the chief," Max countered. "After all, 88 is doing _my_ job."

"Well, if 88 is doing your job, why can't I have someone to do my job?"

Max frowned again. "I'm sure there's a flaw in that logic somewhere but I haven't got time to sort it out right now." He sighed. "All right, look into it - but don't hire anyone until you have my okay."

"Until what?"

"You have my okay."

"Thanks, Max," Larabee replied, disappearing back into the outer office.

Before Max could react, 88 bustled into the office and flopped herself down in the chair facing Max's desk.

"We have a situation, Boss," she announced. "There's a plot afoot to topple the democratically elected government of Majikistan and restore the communists to power."

"Mmm." Max frowned again. Under the burdens of his new position, it was rapidly becoming his usual expression. "That sounds like something we should try to prevent."

"I thought so, too," 88 answered in her best professional tone. "That's why I brought it to you." She grinned. "Hey, that rhymed."

She quickly outlined the story told by the Majiki emissary.

Max's frown deepened. "Isn't that the plot of _The Three Musketeers_?"

"Except for the names and a few other changes," 88 agreed.

Max sat back in his chair. "The one with Gene Kelly was the best version. Van Heflin, Gig Young and Robert Coote as the musketeers. Great movie."

"Funny," 88 mused, "I just recommended the book to a customer in my store and now I'm living it. . . Well, not so much funny ha-ha as funny peculiar." She laughed. "Actually, it _is_ kind of funny ha-ha."

Max stared at her as she rambled on. "It was a book?"

"I have more information but I think I should tell you under the Cone of Silence."

Max brightened. "Certainly." He had only just had the device reinstalled and relished the chance to try it out. He pressed a button set into his desk and they both looked up expectantly to watch the Cone of Silence descend toward them. Then they each checked that their respective ends were flush with the desk.

When Max was satisfied that the seal was secure he motioned for 88 to continue.

"Alexandre Dumas wrote _The Three Musketeers_ in 1844," she told him, then fell silent.

"Is that all?"

"No, he wrote other books, too. I can give you a list if you'd like."

"That's good of you, 88, but you do realize that technically speaking you didn't really need to use the Cone of Silence to tell me that."

"I know. But the the thing is just so darn much fun."

Max gazed at her proudly. "I knew you were the right person for this job."

88 grinned. "Don't let my brilliance go to your head now."

Max pressed the button again and they both watched as the Cone rose back into its protective housing overhead.

Max rubbed his hands together. "Back to the mission!" he declared, the incongruity of making the remark _after_ raising the Cone of Silence evidently escaping him. "I'm giving you my official ten-four to go ahead."

88 looked puzzled. "_Ten-four_? You mean _okay_, don't you?"

Max shot a glance at Larabee's door. "No. I'm not saying that any more. I changed it."

88 raised her eyebrows so that they disappeared into her mop of sandy-colored hair. "You changed it? Your okay?"

"I'm fine. Thanks for asking."

"Don't you want to know what I have in mind?"

"That won't be necessary, 88. I have every confidence that you can handle this almost as well as I would."

"Oh," 88 began, looking somewhat bemused, "well, with that, er, ringing endorsement, Maxine and I'll get on it right away." She stood up. "We just have to stop in at the lab to check out some special equipment."

Max stood, too. "I'll go with you," he said. "The new lab man starts today and I want to introduce him to the Head of the Agents' Section."

88 grinned. "Me, right?"

Max smiled and nodded. "It never gets old, does it?"

---------------

Max entered the lab, flanked by 88 and Maxine, as work crews labored putting the finishing touches on restoring the facility to its former glory.

The man in charge, a middle aged man whose greying temples gave him a distinguished air, walked through the mayhem. "Ah, Chief," he addressed Max, "Nice of you to pay us a visit. Everything will be up to snuff very shortly."

"Excellent," Max replied as the lab man's gaze flickered between his guests. "Professor Simpson, I want you to meet two of our agents. This is Agent 24 . . . "

Maxine nodded. "Professor."

"Charmed."

"Yes, well, don't get too charmed - she's my daughter. And this is Agent 88; she's the Head of the Agents' Section. 88, this is Professor Simpson, new Head of the Lab Section."

". . . and two Heads are better than one," 88 finished.

"Professor Simpson used to be at our West Coast bureau but don't hold that against him."

"I'm looking forward to working with you, 88," the professor said graciously.

"Why? What have you heard?"

Simpson seemed taken aback by the question. "Heard? Nothing, I - "

"Nothing whatever?" 88 asked.

"Nothing whatever," Simpson echoed, resulting in a smirk appearing on 88's lips.

"That seems unlikely," Maxine remarked.

The professor looked at her oddly. "What?"

Max looked at his watch, then found himself a chair and sat on it.

"That you haven't heard anything."

"Pay no attention to the girl behind the curtain!" 88 declared, waving her hand as though the gesture might make Maxine disappear.

"She's really quite notorious," Maxine explained. "Like Ingrid Bergman."

"Ingrid Bergman," Max murmured from his chair. "Now that was an actress."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," Simpson demurred.

"Never be afraid of the truth," 88 epigrammed. "Isn't that like a rule in science?"

"I assure you I heard nothing," he insisted, unwittingly giving 88 yet another opening.

"Thank-you, Sgt Schultz."

Being of the logical persuasion, Simpson was ill-equipped to find himself at the center of a comedy routine. "I merely meant - "

Maxine regarded him with concern. "Have you had your hearing checked lately?"

"I think it's the room," said 88.

"The acoustics," said Maxine.

"Exactly. Have you ever thought about redoing it in sound absorbing paint?"

"Maybe a nice shade of salmon pink."

"Or duck egg blue."

"Sound absorbing paint?" Simpson responded (although he really should have known better by then). "Then I really wouldn't be able to hear anything."

"Think how relaxing that would be," 88 suggested.

"You are a little on edge," Maxine averred

"I wasn't on edge before you two got here," Simpson harumphed.

"An afternoon nap can work wonders," 88 told him.

"And that's from personal experience," Maxine added.

"Is that another crack about my age?"

"If the Supp-Hose fits . . . "

Simpson's annoyance was replaced by confusion as he realized that his tormentors suddenly seemed to have lost interest in him and had instead inexplicably turned on each other. He turned toward Max.

"Don't look at me," Max said. "You just have to wait until they wind down."

"How long does that usually take?"

"I don't know. I'm still waiting."

88 produced a piece of paper. "In the meantime, here's a list of the special equipment we'll be needing for our mission."

Simpson took the paper and read it. He looked back at 88 doubtfully, unable to reconcile the talky, tousled individual before him with someone who could conceivably carry out a 'mission'. "What are you going to do with this stuff?"

88 wagged her finger at him like a school teacher. "Never you mind. Just put it in a doggy bag and my lackey here will pick it up in an hour."

Maxine turned up her nose. "Lackey?"

"Good word, huh?"

"Not from my perspective."

"Well, Professor," said 88, "we must get together and do this again sometime."

"Again?"

"Oh, and Professor . . . ?"

Simpson sighed resignedly. "Yes?"

88 grinned. "Welcome to Control."

Simpson merely nodded, watching dazedly after the two agents as they walked away.

"'Lackey' was a literary allusion," 88 said to Maxine.

"Your second, by my count," Maxine replied.

"Very good, Watson."

"That's three."

Max stood up from his chair and walked back over to Professor Simpson, still staring at the now empty doorway, looking like the proverbial deer caught in headlights.

"Well," Max said, "that went smoother than I expected."

---------------

The Piper Cherokee two-seater aircraft buzzed over endless square acres of ploughed farmland.

88 sat in the pilot's seat on the left side of the cockpit guiding the plane through the clear sky. In her relentless quest for the perfect punchline, she had tried to get a Beechcraft Musketeer - her lips twitched at the thought of Max's reaction to seeing _that_ on her expense account - but time had been short and the Cherokee would serve their mission just as well.

From her place in the right-hand seat, Maxine gazed at her partner with awe. "I had no idea you were a pilot. That's so cool."

"Just one of my many hidden talents," 88 replied modestly.

"So how long have you been flying?"

"Planes you mean? About ten years. I got inspired when NASA announced the first women astronauts back in '78."

"That's amazing."

"You don't think I was just waiting around for your father to come through my door and make me an agent again, do you? I had a life."

"Maybe I did think that in a way," Maxine said thoughtfully. "That you were somehow snap-frozen in time until we needed you again."

"Well, it could have been worse. You could have said freeze-dried."

"So what were you doing?"

"Ah, twists and turns." 88 smiled enigmatically. "Maybe I'll tell you about it someday."

"All right, Ms Mystery. I'll be looking forward to it." Maxine looked around the cockpit as though she was studying it. "Very cool," she repeated. She glanced at the controls. "I've gotta learn to do this." Her expression became serious. "You know, we really shouldn't have teased Professor Simpson like that. I think we came on a bit too strong for him."

"But he makes it so easy. Besides, it's important to get the relationship between the Lab and Agents' Sections off on the right foot. I learned that watching your father; I don't know what _he_ thought he was doing but that's what I learned."

"The right foot?'

"Or the left one. Whatever works for you."

"And you think we accomplished that?"

"Their job is to support _us_ but some of those scientist types act like it's the other way around. Sometimes they need to be reminded that they're not smarter than we are - they just know stuff we don't know." She grinned. "And there's no harm if we have a little fun while we're doing it."

Maxine grinned. "You're wicked."

"So what does that make you? The sorcerer's apprentice?"

"You're a bad influence on me."

"Did he say something when you went back for the equipment?"

"He wasn't there. I think he was hiding out. His 'apprentice' was filling in for him."

"Apprentice?" 88's mouth twitched. For some reason that word tickled her funny bone today. "You mean Duane?"

"No, the other one. Austin Parker."

"Sounds like an English car attendant."

"Apparently he's the nephew of someone Dad used to work with."

"Professor Parker, right."

"You knew him?"

"No, but the boys in the lab used to speak highly of him. Hey, he retired in 1966. I don't go back _that_ far."

Maxine smirked. "Did I say something?"

"Your father is turning Control into a real family operation, isn't he?"

"What do you mean?"

"First you, now Austin. He's thinking of recruiting Agent 13's nephew, too."

"Dad's big on family," Maxine said. "His own parents were distant and he didn't want to repeat their mistakes. It's probably only a matter of time before he brings Zach in as well."

"How do you feel about _that_?"

"Oh, Zach's not so bad. He's a little slow on the uptake sometimes but I think he'll make a good agent if he applies himself to it. The real question is how _he'll_ feel when he finds out I've beaten him to it. He was the one who always wanted to _be_ a spy; I never thought of _myself_ that way until that day back at BU when Dad showed up in my dorm and asked me to work with him."

"And now here you are."

"And now here _we_ are," Maxine corrected gently. "You know he thinks of you as family, too."

88 looked startled for a moment, then faintly embarassed, but then grinned. "There now, you see? It got icky."

Maxine scrambled to change the subject. "Speaking of 'here', where exactly _is_ 'here'?"

"Funny you should ask," 88 replied. "We just happen to be directly over Bolshograd, the capital city of Transmania - Majikistan's next-door neighbor." She pointed out the window. "And that down there? That's the president's mansion."

"Is that wise? Someone's likely to spot us."

"I'm sure their radar ops did that as soon as we crossed the border. Transmania's still a communist country; they're paranoid about their security."

"That's going to make it hard to sneak in."

"Oh, we're not sneaking in," 88 said nonchalantly. "We're crashing this party." And with that she abruptly reached forward and switched off the plane's engine.

"Are you out of your mind?!!" Maxine screeched as the negative Gs lifted her up against her seatbelt.

"You know," 88 panted as she struggled with the plummeting plane's control yoke, "you're not the first person to ask me that."

---------------

The door to Max's office slid open and Larabee walked in accompanied by a small boy who appeared to be about twelve years old.

"Hi, Max," said Larabee. "Meet my new assistant."

"That's not your new assistant."

"Why not?"

"Because I didn't hire him."

"I hired him."

"He's a bit young, isn't he?"

"We've had younger agents than this before, Max. Remember the little boy lookout we had outside that bank once? Or was it twice? I can never be sure. I had a strange case of deja vu that day."

"You, too? Well, whatever it was, he's going to have to go back to Central Casting or wherever he came from. I just don't have the budget for him."

"But that's why I hired him," Larabee protested. "You can pay him half what you'd pay a grownup."

"And have Paul Petersen on my back? Besides, I'd have to hire a tutor, and a pediatrician . . . " Max eyed the boy again. ". . . and a collie to rescue him if he falls down a well."

---------------

The Presidential Mansion of Transmania was built on a grandiose scale. To those within, that was only fitting as it was not only the president's residence but also the Transmanian Seat of Government - and an effective demonstration of the dominance of the elite over the hoi polloi. It was also fitting therefore that abutting the mansion's courtyard there should be an Olympic-sized swimming pool. What those within would not have found fitting, however, was the Piper Cherokee two-seater airplane currently bobbing in the pool's blue-tinted water.

Inside the plane, Maxine Smart brushed aside a stray lock of dark hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. "Let me get this straight: We're _inside_ the grounds of the Tranmanian presidential mansion?"

88 nodded. Her hair of course looked exactly as it always did. "Not a bad bit of pilotage if I do say so myself - and I do."

'Well, all I can say is it's lucky this huge swimming pool was here to break our fall."

"Luck had nothing to do with it; it showed up clearly in the satellite imagery. This was part of the plan all along."

"That's amazing."

"Yes, those spysats see just about everything these days."

"No, I meant the fact that you had a plan."

"Consider that today's lesson: Spontaneity sometimes works best on a foundation of careful planning,"

"Consistency's not your strong suit, is it? Where'd you get that line anyway? A fortune cookie?"

"No, the Shaolin temple."

Maxine opened her mouth to retort, then shut it again, momentarily distracted by this revelation. "You were at the Shaolin temple? With the kicks and the kung fu?"

"I told you I had a life."

"_Had_ being the operative word," Maxine muttered, as thoughts of their predicament returned to mind. "Have you given any thought to what will happen when someone notices us out here?'

"Of course."

"And?"

"We'll be captured."

"That's it? We'll be captured? That's your great plan?'

"You seem upset."

"Upset?" Maxine repeated, her voice rising several octaves. "Don't you remember the third thing we learned in spy school? Never get captured!"

"Actually that was the fourth thing. The third thing was - " 88 was interrupted by the sound of shouting and splashing coming from outside the plane. She looked out the window on her side as a mini armada of rubber rafts approached bearing a squad of uniformed armed guards. "Company's coming," she reported.

"Terrific."

88 glanced at Maxine who was still looking somewhat disheveled after their rapid descent. "You might want to fix yourself up a bit."

Maxine made a fist. "I'm about this close to slugging you right now."

"Feisty."

The plane started rocking as one of the guards - presumably the ranking officer - clambered onto the wing on Maxine's side and pounded on the hatch.

"Open up!" he yelled. "Open up!"

At 88's signal, Maxine obliged, working the release mechanism.

"Good morning, gentlemen," 88 said brightly. "Welcome to _The Bald Eagle_. May I offer you a hot dog or a slice of apple pie?"

The guard cocked his head. "Amerikanski?"

"What gave me away? Was it my accent? Darn that Fiona Feeney's Fine Finishing School. I guess you can take the Yankee out of the country but you can't yank the country out of her voice - and by country I mean the good ol' U.S of A. Oops. Did I say that out loud?"

"Okay, now you're overdoing it," Maxine scolded.

"There's no such thing as overdoing it."

Maxine looked around her. "So I see."

"You have flag and letters USA painted on side of plane," the guard said, as though it was the result of some great detective work on his part.

"We could be from the island of Usa," 88 pointed out.

"You are from Usa?"

"No."

Maxine shook her head. "Right on the side of the plane. I should have realized."

"It pays to advertise," said 88.

"Where are your passports?" the guard demanded, seemingly oblivious to their byplay.

88 looked disappointed. "Aren't you going to ask, 'How was your flight?'."

"Your passports!" he repeated humorlessly.

88 started patting herself down, searching the pockets of her flight suit. "Passports." She turned to Maxine. "Do you have the passports?"

Maxine, dressed in a pocketless skirt and sweater, furrowed her brow, unsure what her response was supposed to be. "You tell me."

"We must have left them in our other plane. Oh, wait, here they are." 88 withdrew the documents from a shelf right in front of her and handed them past Maxine to the guard.

He opened the first one, revealing a picture of a mop-haired 88 grinning toothily.

"You are Ruby Tuesday?"

"And Wednesday, too."

"And you . . . " He opened the second passport containg a view of Maxine's more demure visage. "You are . . . Polythene Pam?"

A pained look appeared on Maxine's face. "Polythene Pam?" she repeated. "Let me see that." She snatched the passport from him and examined it in dismay. Insult added to injury. "Why do I always get the goofy name?"

"Not now, Polly."

Maxine held her tongue. She could deal with 88 later; whatever her plan was, they were committed to it now and getting through to this dim-witted guard was obviously the first priority. "Perhaps you'd like to know why we're here," she suggested.

"What is your business in Tranmania?" said guard asked officiously.

"Inside the compound," she specified but when he glared at her she shrugged. "Just trying to help."

"Transmania?" 88 echoed, her face a picture of wide-eyed surprise, causing him to look back at her. She snapped her fingers. "I should have turned left at Albuquerque."

It was at this point that the guard started to realize that these may not be ordinary tourists. "Do you think I am fool?" he asked hotly.

"The thought had crossed my mind," 88 admitted.

He looked again at Maxine. "Did you think I would not recognize famous western songs?"

"Would you believe our parents were disc jockeys?"

88 nodded approvingly. "Good one."

'Let's just move this along, shall we?" Maxine snapped.

"He'll get it any moment now, I'm sure."

"I tell you what I believe!" the guard declared.

"Here we go."

"What I believe is you are in Transmania without valid reason or documents!"

"Wait for it."

"I believe you are spies!"

"Bingo."

"I guess you caught us," Maxine said contritely, resisting the urge to add _finally_.

"Caught you indeed I have!" the guard gloated.

"You're a credit to your uniform," 88 told him. "And nice Yoda impression, too, by the way."

"Seize them!" the guard ordered his underlings. "Take them to the cells!"

88 grinned. "Come along, Polly. We've been invited in."

And her grin stayed firmly in place even as they were led away from the plane at gunpoint.

---------------

"Max, this is - "

"Don't tell me. It's your new assistant."

"That's right, Max."

"I asked you not to tell me that."

This time the subject of their discussion was a white-haired gentleman of obvious vintage dressed casually in a cardigan and slacks.

"At least you can't say this one is too young."

"No, I can't say that."

"I found him looking for work in the barber shop down the street."

"Fine. Take his resume and I'll . . . " Max peered more closely at Larabee's offsider. "Wait a minute. Aren't you singing legend Perry Como?"

"Why, yes I am," the man replied mellisonantly.

"It's an honor to meet you, Mr Como. I'm a big fan. I have all your albums."

"That's very nice of you."

"'Til the End of Time' is a real classic."

"Then I have the job?"

"I'm afraid not."

"May I ask why?'

"Yes, you may."

"Well, er, why?"

"This is an espionage organization, Mr Como."

"So?"

"So we need someone who stays awake while he's working."

---------------

Maxine paced back and forth - an activity made more difficult by the small confines of their cell - occasionally pausing to glare at 88 who sat placidly on the bunk playing a mournful melody on a harmonica.

With a final impatient exhalation, Maxine stopped in front of her. "Are you happy now?" she demanded.

88 left off playing the blues long enough to look up soulfully and inquire, "Is anybody ever really happy?"

"Let me put it another way: Just what the H-E-double-hockey-sticks do you think you're doing?"

"You've got to admit, it got us inside much quicker that we'd have gotten in by sneaking."

"But what good does that do us when we're locked up in here trapped like rats trapped in a, er . . . "

"Trap?"

"Yes. Exactly."

88 stood up. "Think about it, Polly."

"Stop calling me that."

"All right. Maxine. Think about it. They think they've captured two of America's top spies . . . "

"They _have_ captured two of America's top spies."

"Self-confidence. Good. They've captured two of America's top spies. So this is too big for just the mansion guards to handle, so who are they going to call?"

Max's face softened as realization hit. "Ghostbusters?"

88 laughed. "Ghostbusters. That's funny. 'I ain't afraid of no ghosts.' The sequel wasn't as good, though."

"I see what you're saying."

"Sequels seldom are. Present company excepted, of course."

"We know our man is in Security so he's bound to learn we're here; we don't have to go looking for him because he will come to us."

"There _is_ method to my madness, Maxine."

Maxine couldn't help but smile at the sudden plaintive tone in her partner's voice. "I think it's more a case of madness in the method."

"So we're okay?"

"Of course we're okay. Look: I'll support any crazy idea you decide on; you know that. Just give me a little warning if you're going to pull a stunt like that again, all right?"

"Sometimes my brain has a mind of it's own," 88 admitted, "but I'll try to tell you as soon as I know myself."

"That's all I can ask."

Maxine reached out her arms and 88 allowed a reassuring hug. "I guess a _little_ ick never hurt anyone."

"How very touching," said a masculine voice.

Maxine and 88 froze.

---------------

"Max?"

"What is it now, Larabee?"

"Remember Nino Salvatore Sebastiani's clonatorium?"

"What about it?"

"If Professor Simpson could get that working again, I could clone myself and be my own assistant."

"I think you've got something there, Larabee."

"You do?"

"Yes. The worst idea I ever heard."

"This could work, Max. I could do twice the work in half the time. One of me could work days and the other could work nights. When I took over from myself in the morning I'd say, 'Good morning, Larabee' and he'd say, 'Good morning, Larabee'. And at night I'd say, 'Good night, Larabee' and he'd say, 'Good night, Larabee'. We could even play two-handed solitaire."

"Two-handed solitaire is a little tricky. Are you ambidexterous?"

"That's a rather personal question, isn't it, Max?"

"Then let me ask you this: If you're him and he's you, how do you know you won't end up being _his_ assistant?"

"I can tell myself apart, Max."

"You can _tell yourself apart_?"

"I've had a lot of experience."

"I know I'm going to regret this, but what experience do you have at 'telling yourself apart'?"

"Every morning. Shaving in the mirror."

"Shaving in the mirror."

"If I try to put shaving cream on the wrong face the glass gets in the way."

"Of course."

"Is that all you're going to say?"

"No, there's one more thing."

"What?"

"Get out, Larabee."

---------------

"It's showtime," Maxine whispered. She broke off her embrace and she and 88 turned to see a dark-haired man with matinee idol good looks looking in at them through the bars of their cell.

"Greetings, Ashley," said 88. "How goes the war?"

"Literary allusion or movie reference?" Maxine asked.

"Either way - that's the beauty of it."

"I know you are here for the necklace," the man said. "You can drop the small talk."

"But small talk is my shtick."

"Who are you?" Maxine asked, slipping into her role of, if not quite good cop to 88's bad cop, then at least slightly saner cop.

"He's Mikhail Rostropovich," said 88. "First Deputy Security Minister of Transmania."

Maxine shook her head. "Why am I even surprised anymore?" She looked at 88 in wonder. "I know you have a photographic memory but how do you know all this stuff in the first place?"

"Meditation," 88 said

"Meditation?"

"Meditation. It empties the mind,"

"That explains a lot."

"It makes you more attuned to your surroundings," 88 elucidated.

"Meditation." Maxine had been working with 88 for a while now but was chagrined to find that she could still not always tell whether 88 was being serious.

88 tapped her own skull, "Crossword puzzles are good, too."

With difficulty, Maxine dragged her gaze away from her partner and back to the newcomer. "So, er, Rostropovich, was it?"

Rostropovich bowed slightly. "At your service."

"And just what service would that be exactly, Mr Shostakovich?" 88 asked.

"It's Rostropovich," he reminded her.

"What is?"

"My name . . . but you knew that."

"Of course it is. I always mix those two up."

To their surprise, Rostropovich responded with a smile. "I'm sure you do. But let us - as you say - cut to the chase."

88 smiled back. "Let's do. I love a good chase."

Maxine rolled her eyes. "Oh, brother."

"Quiet, Maxine. Can't you see we're having a moment? . . . Okay. Moment's over."

Rostropovich's eyes glinted with amusement. "My captain says you are American spies."

"Your captain is a very wise man."

"My captain is an idiot."

"Well, I was being polite."

"Yet in this case I think he is correct."

"What makes you say that?" Maxine asked guardedly.

"My own sources tell me that your country wishes to recover the necklace of Linara Krosni in time for her husband's inauguration - something my country would prefer to prevent - and you have 'dropped in', so to speak, at just the right time and place in which to do so. Surely this is no coincidence."

"It _is_ no coincidence," 88 confirmed. "And don't call me Shirley."

"And your appearance here - alone. This is no coincidence either," Maxine suggested.

"It is not."

"Then it seems you have a decision to make."

"You are most perceptive."

"Who's the blind cylcops now?" 88 needled.

"It takes one to know one."

"It takes one to know one? You can do better that that."

"Why don't you bore a hole in yourself and let the sap run out?"

"Ah, a classic."

Rostropovich smothered a grin. "If you ladies are finished . . . "

"Please continue," said 88. "I believe we were just about to reach the climax."

"Indeed. As I see it I have two alternatives: First, I can recommend that you be put on trial for espionage where you will be found guilty and executed."

"Do we get a vote?" Maxine asked. "Because I'd be voting no on that one.'

88 nodded. "And behind door number two?"

"For myself, I have no desire to see Madame Krosni humiliated in this way. For a small consideration I could be persuaded to assist you in returning her property to her without delay."

"How small?"

"One hundred thousand American dollars."

"You'd sell out your country for a mere six figures?"

"Who's selling out? Times are changing. Transmania must one day embrace democracy and make an alliance with the West as our neighbor has done; this is the way of the future. And when that day comes, perhaps this day will be remembered as the first step in that friendship." He smiled. "And in the meantime, why should I not make a small profit? That is capitalism, is it not?"

88 grinned. "Or a reasonable facsimile thereof." She nodded to her partner. "Pay the man, Maxine."

But Maxine wasn't so sure. "How do we know we can trust him?"

"I don't think we need be concerned about that, Maxine. Our new friend here is a budding entrepreneur. He's not going to burn his very first paying customers. It wouldn't be good for business. Right, Mr Denisovitch?"

"Wrong."

"Wrong?"

"It's Rostropovich."

"Right. What _was_ I thinking?"

He laughed gently. "A literary allusion, perhaps?"

88's face lit up. "See, Maxine? We're all on the same page. . . Literature? Page? See what I did there?"

"Yes, I saw. Sometimes it worries me." Maxine looked at Rostropovich. "Turn around," she directed.

He raised his eyebrows. "Why?"

"Because I'm wearing my EFT-enabled garter-phone and if you don't turn around the whole deal's off."

Rostropovich did as he was bid and when he turned back Maxine was holding the electronic garter in her hand. "I have never seen anything like this!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, come now, Kosovich," 88 said pleasantly. "I hear you're quite the ladies' man."

"Rumors only, I'm afraid."

"That's too bad."

"Just enter the number of your Swiss bank account using these buttons," Maxine instructed, "and the funds will be electronically transferred using an encrypted transmission frequency."

"How do you know I have a Swiss bank account?" Rostropovich asked suspiciously.

Maxine shrugged. "Doesn't everybody?"

Rostropovich entered the numbers and the garter beeped once.

"All done," said Maxine. She twirled her fingers in the air and Rostropovich turned around once more; when he turned back the garter was nowhere to be seen.

"Your turn," said 88.

"The necklace is in the safe in the president's office," Rostropovich told them. "I will arrange for him to be called away on an urgent matter. The combination is the date of his son's birthday. Do you wish me to write it down?"

"Don't bother," said Maxine. "I'm sure she knows it already."

88 shrugged humbly. "What can I say? The Maharishi said I was an apt pupil."

"Wait a minute. You studied at the Shaolin temple _and_ with the Maharishi?"

"And the Amazing Kreskin."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Only about one of them."

Rostropovich chuckled. "You two are most entertaining. Like Lucy and Ethel from your American television."

"Which am I?" Maxine asked. "No. Don't tell me. I don't want to know."

88's lips curled upward. "Oh, _you_ know."

"On the wall next to the safe you will find a secret panel," Rostropovich continued, "which leads to a secret passage, which leads to a secret tunnel, which leads to a secret safehouse across the border."

"A liitle trite," Maxine commented, "but then totalitarian regimes are not known for their imagination."

"Safety last," 88 remarked absently, just to see how it would sound out loud.

"From there you should have no trouble in reaching your contacts in Majikistan." Rostropovich moved to leave. "Good luck. Perhaps one day I may visit you in your country."

"Hey, Malkovich," 88 called. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Like what?"

"Like letting us out of this cell," Maxine answered.

"Not that we couldn't break out on our own, you understand," 88 added, "but it would make a nice show of good faith on your part."

"Of course. Forgive me. My mind was elsewhere."

"West of the wall?" 88 enquired

Rostropovich winked at her. "Precisely." He reached into his pocket and with his gloved hand pulled out a large iron key.

"How do you like that?" 88 exclaimed with mock shock. "He had a key all the time! And here I thought he had a pistol in his pocket." She looked expectantly at Maxine.

"I thought he was just glad to see us." Maxine grinned at 88. "Thank you for letting me have the punchline for once."

"That's all right. I owed you one."

"Our hapless captain's fingerprints are already on this," Rostropovich told them. "With his history of incompetence even he will believe he left the key in the lock." He shrugged. "Ironic that he will meet his fate for the one incident for which he is in point of fact innocent but . . . c'est la guerre."

"It was necessary," 88 agreed. "Je ne regrette rien," she added, seeing and raising his French maxim.

"That's two song titles in two minutes." Maxine annotated. "You're not going to sing now are you?"

"Ah, Francais," Rostropovich sighed. "The language of diplomacy . . . et l'amour."

88 batted her eyelids. "Et Pepe Le Pew."

He laughed. "Mais ouis." He moved to the chamber door and sketched a wave. "Bon chance, mes amis. It has been a pleasure."

"Au revoir," 88 replied. "Et merci."

Left alone in their cell, Maxine turned to her.

"What is it?" 88 asked.

"Nothing. I've just never seen you flirt before."

"Smooth, huh?"

"Yeah, smooth," Maxine replied dryly. "That's the word for it, all right. But the French. How'd you get to be so fluent?"

"I picked it up when I was with the legion," 88 replied matter-of-factly.

"Legion?" Maxine's eyes widened in renewed wonderment. "The _Foreign_ Legion?"

"Well, I was foreign to them."

---------------

Max stared.

Standing next to Larabee was a figure dressed in a bright multi-colored costume with pink pom-poms down the front for buttons. His face was covered in white makeup except for blue stars drawn around his eyes and a smile painted in red on his lips. The ensemble was topped off by a hat with a flower growing out of it.

"I told you I'd think about it when I had time, Larabee. Now stop bringing these clowns to my office."

---------------

The _Washington Gazette_ carried the picture under the headline, "Majikistan Celebrates New Democracy"; the Majiki president shaking hands with the US ambassador at the inaugural ball, beside him the first lady, elegant in a turquoise sari set off by a strand of gleaming white pearls. And farther down the page, another item: "Transmanian Leader Ousted in Bloodless Coup".

Maxine put the newspaper down on the coffee table next to a leatherbound edition of _The Three Musketeers_. Something of a bibliophile herself, Maxine had found herself amazed by her partner all over again - this time at the extensive library that 88 had managed to cram onto the shelves seemingly built into every available crevice in her small apartment. Much like her hair, however, the books seemed to be arranged according to no discernible pattern, yet 88 seemed to have no trouble locating them - another function, Maxine supposed, of 88's photographic memory. In fact, Maxine thought, 88 didn't really need to get the books at all as she always seemed able to recall their text verbatim. When Maxine had asked whether she'd read them all, 88 had grinned her characteristic grin and replied: "I'm working on it."

"You're right," Maxine said now, "it's pretty weird. That was diamond studs and this was a pearl necklace but this case was very much like what happened in the book. A case of 'life imitating art'."

". . . imitating life," 88 appended. "_The Three Musketeers_ was based on historical characters."

"You know, there's one thing that's always puzzled me about _The Three Musketeers_."

"What?"

"Well, a musket is like an old-fashioned rifle, right?"

"Right."

"Then why is it even called _The Three Musketeers_ when it's all about the swords?"

It was 88's turn to be surprised. "I never thought of that. That's a good question." After a moment's thought she added, "Maybe they got a bang out of the muskets but the swords made the point better."

Maxine groaned but there was a twinkle in her eyes. "Now that was truly awful."

88 loved her lives. Books and spying. What could be better? Unless it was a best friend to share them with. She smiled to herself. Nice thought . . . but still not funny.

---------------

Larabee picked himself up from the floor in front of his office where he had fallen from the phone booth trap door. The office door slid open and he entered and was astonished to see a mousey brown-haired woman seated behind his desk.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"Who are you?" she countered.

"I asked you first."

"I'm behind the desk."

"It's my desk."

"It's your desk?"

"I'm Larabee."

"Larabee? Why does that sound familiar?"

"It's my desk."

"Oh, you're Larabee!"

"That does sound familar."

The woman activated the intercom. "Mr Smart, your ten o'clock is here."

"Ten o'clock?" Max's voice replied. "And it's only nine? I'll be right out." The door to the inner office opened and Max emerged shaking his wrist. "Larabee? Are you on time or has my watch stopped?"

"Sorry, sir," said the woman. "I meant your other ten o'clock."

"Good. Mr Cheney hates to be kept waiting. And by the way, a word of advice: Don't use the phrase 'You and what army?' when you're arguing with the Secretary of Defense. That's one mistake I won't be making again, believe me."

"Who's this, Max?" Larabee asked. "Is she my new assistant?"

"This is Trudy," Max told him. "She's not your assistant. she's your replacement."

"I'm Trudy."

"She's a temp the agency sent me; I needed someone to do your job."

"I'm a temp."

Larabee's face fell. "You're firing me?"

"Not exactly. I was thinking about what you said before and you're right."

"You'll have to remind me, Max. I say a lot of things."

"About you being the only one who hadn't been promoted and having someone to do your old job like 88 is doing mine. We need a new Head of the Administration Section. What do you say?"

Max waited while the puzzle pieces finally snapped together in Larabee's head.

"You're promoting me?"

"Right."

"Head? Does that mean everyone in the Administration Section will be working for me?"

"Yes."

"Do I get a raise?"

"No."

"Is that your final offer?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll take it."

"Excellent. Just think, Larabee . . . " Max put one hand on his friend's shoulder and with the other gestured toward some unseen vista. "This is the dawn of a brand new era for Control. With me as the Chief and you as Head of Administration, what could possibly go wrong?"

---------------

Conrad Siegfried surveyed his new office with smug satisfaction.

A few well-placed knives in backs - both real and figurative - had at last delivered him the prize that should have been his long ago: He was now Chief of Kaos. No more kowtowing to the latest crazy new leader with a crazy new scheme. From now on it would be his way or the autobahn.

His reverie was broken by the buzzing of the intercom on his desk.

"Vot is it, Lili?"

"Nikolai is here to see you."

"Vot is he doink out zere? Tell him to come in here. Do I haff to do everyone's sinking for zem?"

The door opened and a young man with wavy blond hair walked in.

"Ah, Nikolai! Vot haff you learned?"

"It is as you suspected, Comrade Siegfried." He handed over a manilla envelope. "It is all in here."

Siegfried opened the envelope and studied the documents that spilled out. "You are sure about zis?"

"Dere is no doubt. De computer cross-checked de surveillance tapes from de Follies theatre with de DMV database and I haff personally observed de subject's movements for de past month - including her activities in regard to de Krosni matter."

"Zat vas her?"

Nikolai nodded. "Da. Her and her partner."

"Impressive." Siegfried scowled. "It seems zat ze battle with my arch-nemesis continues in a new vay." He addressed the 8 X 10 file photograph which formed part of the dossier. "You had ze advantage over me ze last time ve met but next time vill be different . . . Maxine Shmart."

The End . . . of the beginning.


End file.
